Highland Wolf (Highland Brides #10)(92)
“He saved us both and took a ferocious wound doing so,” Conall said quietly. “Allistair was afraid we’d lose him. But once he’d pulled through the night, he decided he’d be all right. He deserves the bed.”
The words made her beam at him, and Claray blurted, “I love ye, husband.”
The words just slipped out. She hadn’t planned on saying them, but they were true for all that, and much to her relief, Conall pressed a kiss to her forehead and then pulled back to meet her gaze and said, “I love ye too, wife.”
Claray was just relaxing, her smile widening, when he added, “But do ye ever taunt a madman with a knife to yer throat again, I swear I’ll take ye over me knee and paddle ye till ye can no’ sit fer a week.”
Scowling, Claray tried to turn her head away, but he caught her face and added grimly, “I thought I’d die when he was sawin’ at yer throat. I could no’ bear it again.”
Claray felt guilty then, but told him, “I did no’ realize he’d cut so deep. It did no’ hurt.”
“Yer blood was up,” he said with understanding. “I’ve suffered many a wound in battle that did no’ hurt right away. But that just means ye ha’e to be even more cautious.”
Claray nodded, but—reminded of Hamish and his mother—now asked, “Did ye send the men to collect them? Were they still there?”
“Aye,” he said on a sigh, and then shook his head. “I did no’ recognize her as me nursemaid.”
“It has been twenty-two years,” she pointed out gently. “She was only fourteen when ye last saw her, barely more than a child.”
“A child who killed more people in one sitting than I ha’e in all me years in battle,” he said bitterly, and then asked, “Did she say how she poisoned them?”
“It was in the wine and ale as yer uncle suspected,” Claray admitted.
Conall nodded. “And she thought she was carrying out God’s will, ye said?”
Claray hesitated, and then sighed and explained, “She was very confused. The church says we should no’ enjoy the beddin’, that only sinners do. Yet her husband, much like yerself, apparently troubled himself to be sure she did enjoy it. I fear it plagued her and made her fear fer her soul. And then, I gather she witnessed yer parents . . . er . . . enjoyin’ themselves by the pond,” she said delicately, and then rushed on, “And others around the keep as well, and felt sure the only way to redeem herself fer her own enjoyment o’ it, was to . . .”
“Kill ’em all,” Conall said dryly when she paused to search for a way to say it.
“Aye,” she breathed regretfully.
Conall was silent for a minute, and then asked, “Are you troubled by me making ye enjoy it?”
Claray flushed, but admitted honestly, “I was at first. But I’ve resigned meself to it.”
“Resigned yerself?” he asked with concern. “Should I stop—?”
“Nay!” Claray interrupted quickly, and then scowled. “Do no’ you dare stop. I love the pleasure ye give me, and if ’tis wrong, then I’ll happily serve me time in hell fer it.”
“Ye will, will ye?” he asked with a faint smile.
Claray nodded, and then added, “But I do no’ think the church is right about this. I love ye, and the loving is an expression of that. ’Tis beautiful and precious.” Pausing, she smiled slightly, and added, “Besides, ye ordered me to enjoy it, and Father Cameron did make me vow to obey ye. I can hardly be punished fer keeping vows the church made me make.”
The concern easing from his face, Conall chuckled and hugged her close. “I do love ye, Claray. Yer beautiful, and clever, and sure to drive me mad and scare me witless at times. But I’d have it no other way.”
“Neither would I, husband,” Claray murmured, hugging him back. “Neither would I.”
About the Author
LYNSAY SANDS is the nationally bestselling author of the Argeneau/Rogue Hunter vampire series, as well as numerous historicals and anthologies. She’s been writing since grade school and considers herself incredibly lucky to be able to make a career out of it. Her hope is that readers can get away from their everyday stress through her stories, and if there are occasional uncontrollable fits of laughter, that’s just a big bonus.
lynsaysands.net
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Chapter 1
“How many?”
That question from Lucian Argeneau made Stephanie open her eyes. She’d closed them to concentrate on the many voices sounding in her head, but now glanced around at Lucian and the group of rogue hunters awaiting her answer. It was predawn on a warm fall evening, the sun sending streaks of orange and vermillion out to pierce the night sky ahead of its arrival. But it was still pitch black in the copse of maples they stood in. Even so, she didn’t have trouble making out the twelve people ranged around her, or the overgrown yard of the somewhat rundown seventies-style bungalow on the other side of the trees.